Team Fortress Industries: Origins
by Bladex1200
Summary: Who were the mercenaries before the war? T for future violence, gratuitous language, and the like.


**Author's Note: **Ah, it's good to be back. Been about a year since I've been on. I've been reading - lurking in the shadows, so to speak - but I haven't gotten to writing much until today. A short origin story for the Sniper, and hopefully starting a trend where I'll knock out origin stories for all the other classes.

A word on the origin stories. They're not meant to be canon-accurate depictions with the real names and bits of speculation (though I may include speculation/rumors if I deem them appropriate for an origin story). They're meant to depict the characters in their natural environment - their lives before they were drafted by TF Industries.

* * *

He breathed in carefully. Measured breaths. Quiet breaths.

The weapon was well-oiled. The pins were all in place. On the side of the well-worn stock were several notches. One for every head shot. All spooned out deep by a penknife he kept at his side.

Measured breaths. Quiet breaths.

"Stay in position. Target two kilometers off, on the approach."

He shifted slightly, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. His mug of coffee was low, and he grimaced as he drained it in one sip. Was better off without coffee, anyways. Made him twitchy.

The quiet road erupted into a storm of dust and smoke as the dreary convoy of obsolete military trucks rolled through the deserted town. Nothing too out of the ordinary - army convoys passed through the lower 66 all the time to reach the field command newly erected outside Happy Roads.

"Confirming target location."

The front truck rolled past his position. He trained his scope on it for a moment, before switching to the next truck. Then the next. And the next.

"Target is in fourth vehicle. Repeat, target is in fourth vehicle - should have a tattered flag on top of it. Take the shot whenever you're ready."

He whipped the scope around to face said vehicle, and trained his eye on the driver. The man looked to be no older than thirty, although he sported a rather large gut courtesy of the empty soda bottles he saw laying on the dashboard. He took the shot.

The driver slumped.

The convoy seemed unaware for a moment, continuing to rumble slowly through the town. Suddenly, dead weight slumped onto the accelerator, and the truck sped up, slamming into the one in front of it.

The convoy was in chaos.

Muzzle flashes erupted and lit up the dead town as soldiers jumped out of the backs of each truck, fanning out to find the offending sniper. They broke into each boarded-up house and store systematically. Efficiently.

He ran down the stairs, toward a back door he'd been told was attached to the general store he'd set up in. Pausing, he grabbed a dusty can of coffee that still lay on the ransacked walls of the market.

"Might as well be comfortable," he mumbled, approaching the exit.

He stopped. Voices were emanating from the outside. Angry voices. Dangerous voices.

"We checked the store already. Stop wasting your time."

"But sir-"

"No buts. Go check the rest of the houses."

"Yes sir."

The voices grew muffled and hushed as they moved away. He relaxed. gripping the handle and testing it. The door was, remarkably, silent.

The sunlight drowned him as he walked out into the open. Grimacing - though careful to keep his voice in check - he realized that the town was deserted. What sort of bogus operation was this?

Looking around, he took off his pack and placed the can of coffee inside with his sniper rifle and slung it. The town was empty, and not a trace of the convoy - not even footprints or the wisps of smoke the old trucks left - was to be found.

"The hell is this?" he wiped his brow. The sun beat hard on him, and he realized just how hot it was.

"Turn around."

He froze at the voice, making no sudden movements. Slowly shifting, he turned to face the source. He was relieved to find his broker standing in front of him.

"The mission was a test," the voice said, handing him a faded, dented red briefcase, "You'll find your debrief inside. Welcome to Reliable Excavation Demolition."

He held the briefcase with care, turning away to walk to his camper and unwind.

"One more thing," the voice called out.

He didn't bother turning, already opening the back door and setting his pack down alongside the briefcase.

"What's your name?"

He turned as he poured the desiccated contents of the coffee jar into a mug, boiling up some water next to it.

"Sniper, mate."


End file.
